


But Little Conversation

by radondoran



Category: Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours | Around the World in Eighty Days - Jules Verne
Genre: Gen, Missing Scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radondoran/pseuds/radondoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being three dialogues which took place between Detective-Inspector Fix and Jean Passepartout during and after the voyage around the world in eighty days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Little Conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



**14 October - Steamer _Mongolia_**

Passepartout shot a stern look across the table.  "I believe you are putting me on, Monsieur Fix."

"What?"  Fix cast his mind back over the last few minutes of conversation.  Had he said something wrong?  Had he inadvertently given away his true purpose?

"The idea that something as fundamental as time should change depending on something as simple as where a person travels to!" Passepartout replied, pointing a finger at him chidingly.  "My friend, you must know how silly you sound!"

Fix heaved an internal sigh of relief.  "What!" he said aloud.  "I thought I'd explained that already!  It's because the sun takes twenty-four hours to circle--or rather because the earth takes twenty-four hours to . . .  Look, it's very simple," he said, becoming slightly agitated in the face of this stubborn illogic.  He picked up an apple from the bowl that sat between them.  "Imagine this is the earth, you see?  And . . . "  On a sudden whim, he snatched a knife from the table and tried to scratch out some crude longitudinal meridians in the rosy skin.  Being only moderately successful in this, he happened to look up, and saw that Passepartout was laughing into his glass of pale ale.

"Why, you're the one putting me on, you rascal!" he exclaimed, laughing too.

"But it's too funny, watching you try to explain it.  And, look, you've got us a snack."  He took the knife and the apple from Fix's hands, and proceeded to cut out the core in a few nimble motions.

Inspector Fix had set out to make the acquaintance of this fellow, Jean Passepartout, in order to obtain information about his employer, Phileas Fogg, the prime suspect in the Bank of England robbery.  This had not been a difficult task.  Almost within the first day, Passepartout had revealed to Fix everything he knew about Fogg, although this wasn't very much.  He was not entirely convinced by the ridiculous story of the trip around the world in eighty days, and yet he claimed not even to be curious about the true explanation for his master's flight.  If he was in league with Fogg, he was certainly a brilliant actor; if not, he was the most absolute naïf in the world--and the more time they spent together, the more Fix tended towards the latter explanation.

Still, however fruitless this Passepartout had proven as an informant, he was not bad as a travelling companion.  He was a good conversationalist, a ready talker, full of earnest good humor and affection.  He wasn't jaded, like so many people are these days--he seemed interested in nearly everything, and as the vessel proceeded on its way he always had his eyes and ears open to marvel at this or that.  Yes, even if Passepartout's confidence did not prove useful in the pursuit of Fogg, Fix was glad to have fallen in with him, and had begun to look forward to these meetings.

Having removed the core, Passepartout sliced the apple in half through the Greenwich meridian, and handed the western hemisphere to Fix.  "Do you realize," said he, after a couple of bites, "that it has only been five days that you and I have known each other?"

It was somewhat surprising; they got along like old friends.  "Well, one gets into a routine easily on shipboard," said Fix.

"Ah, I suppose you know all about that, working for the Peninsular Company," said Passepartout.  "It must be fascinating, traveling the world for a living.  Where were you before Suez?"

The best lies are made up of half-truths.  Without missing a beat, Fix replied, "Actually, I've been working at the London offices for some time.  I was only dispatched to Suez on the twenty-eighth."

Out of habit, Fix looked for a suspicious response to that date, but Passepartout was undisturbed.  "Why, that's only a few days before we left!" said he.  "I didn't realize we were so close.  Will you be returning to London after this, then?"

"I might, and I might not," replied Fix, who wanted to keep his options open.  If the warrant didn't arrive at Bombay, he had to be prepared to continue this chase to the ends of the earth, if necessary.  "It's never certain where my next assignment will be."

"I know how you feel," said Passepartout, with a smile.  "I haven't the slightest idea when I shall find myself in a quiet London home again.  I'm sure Mr. Fogg will stop this whim at Bombay--but then, I was certain we should go no further than Paris, and before I entered his employ I had it on good authority that he never left Mayfair!  Still, if both of our employers come to their senses, perhaps we shall come across one another in London sometime."

"I'd like that," said Fix, and he meant it.

 **6 December - Pacific Railroad Train No. 48**

Despite the constantly shifting landscape, and the suspense of keeping the fugitive in sight, Fix found that the days seemed to pass much more slowly now than they had crossing Asia.  Quite probably this was because there was nobody to talk to.  Aouda made the effort to be friendly towards him, but it was obvious that her true interest lay elsewhere.  As for Mr. Fogg, although he allowed Aouda to chat with him, he was not a one to converse for conversation's sake--and besides, it left a bad taste in Fix's mouth whenever he found himself obliged to behave as friends with his quarry.

His old intimacy with Passepartout had vanished since he had revealed his true mission in Hong Kong.  His manner was the same as ever, but Passepartout was cold--colder than Fix would have thought he had it in his nature to be.  Fix missed the companionable days of the _Mongolia_ and the _Rangoon_.

This morning, Fix left Fogg and Aouda alone at their seats and wandered down the aisles of the train--not looking for Passepartout, you understand, but not minding if he were to find him.  He found him taking the air on the platform.  The sun was just rising in the gray sky, its golden disc made gigantic by the mist and its proximity to the horizon.  Fix stepped up to the rail beside Passepartout, who acknowledged his greeting with a curt nod, and went back to contemplating the sun.

"My!  It's cold out here," Fix remarked--as with any Englishman, talking about the weather was his first recourse against silence.

"You could go back inside," was Passepartout's logical, if blunt, reply.

After a moment, Fix tried again:  "Still, the breeze is nice, don't you think?"

Passepartout declined to rise to the conversation.  There was another long moment of silence, and just as Fix opened his mouth to make some other meaningless remark, Passepartout interrupted him.  "Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on Mr. Fogg, if he's such a criminal?" he said, with bitter irony.

"Not unless you think Mr. Fogg is the type of man to jump off the train while it's still in motion," Fix replied.

He thought he saw an answering smile flicker on Passepartout's lips at that incongruous image, but he smothered it quickly enough.  "What is it you want?" he asked, quietly.

"Want?" Fix repeated, somewhat flustered.  "Why, I don't want anything.  I'm only saying hello."  Then he burst out, "Listen to me, Mr. Passepartout, I'm not your enemy."

"No," Passepartout agreed.  "We are allies, for the moment."

"Then why do you treat me as if I were?  I waylaid you in Hong Kong, yes, but we must be even on that score.  You didn't hate me when you thought I was a spy sent by the Reform Club.  Surely you can't hold it against me that I work for the Law."  (In describing his occupation in this way, Fix may have overstated the case somewhat:  he still did have in mind the reward promised by the Bank of England, in addition to his more abstract interest in justice.  Still, he did like to think of himself, in the battle between good and evil, as being firmly--and officially--upon the side of Good.  It didn't make sense that Passepartout should be so firmly against him.)  "I'm only doing my duty in pursuing Mr. Fogg.  Don't you understand?  I know you're an innocent man.  I want to help you.  Why can we not be friends?"

Passepartout spoke softly and deliberately.  "Mr. Fix," said he, "I have my duty--and my honor--to think of as well.  You still believe Mr. Fogg is guilty?"

"Yes."

"And you still plan to arrest him?"

"I must."

"Then there can be no sympathy between us!"

As he said this, a change came over Passepartout's face.  It was, Fix had observed from the beginning, that rare phenomenon, an entirely honest face; the big blue eyes were a transparent window to every shade of emotion.  Now, the coldness and anger seemed to waver beyond Passepartout's control, and for an instant there showed through an expression of deep regret.

Fix perceived this weakness, and seized upon it.  "Ah!  If it were otherwise--"

"Good morning, sirs!" said a voice behind them, in the harsh accents of the American West.  "I am Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary by trade.  I'm sure you gentlemen must be curious about the mysteries of the Church of the Latter-Day Saints, which has been so mistreated by our Government.  Well, then, you'll be right glad to know I'm giving a lecture on the subject at eleven o'clock in car number one-seventeen, which all are welcome to attend.  The details are on this notice."  The man pointed to a somewhat illegible piece of paper that he had just tacked onto the door of the car.

"Do you mind?" exclaimed Fix irritably.  "Can't you see I'm trying to have a conversation with this gentleman?"

But it was too late.  "I'll go," said Passepartout.  He spun on his heel, read the notice, and re-entered the carriage without giving Fix a second glance.

 **24 December - London**

After Liverpool, Passepartout had thought he would never see the police detective again.  He was surprised, therefore, to find Fix in the front room at eleven o'clock when he arrived according to Mr. Fogg's summons.  On the bright side, Fix's presence probably meant that he, Passepartout, was not about to be dismissed, as he had half-feared.  Still, he was uncomfortable in the presence of his erstwhile ally.  There was no longer a reason for animosity between them, but it had been so long since they were friends.  Passepartout avoided Fix's eye, and was glad when Mr. Fogg began to speak.

"You are both probably wondering why I have called you here," said he.  "I have been engaged in settling my accounts.  In making the trip around the world in eighty days, I have calculated that I spent nineteen thousand pounds; but I did so in order to win a wager of twenty thousand.  In this way I have been left with a surplus in the amount of one thousand pounds.  As you may recall, I always gamble for the game's own sake, and not for my own profit.  Therefore, as the two of you seem to have incurred a significant amount of trouble on my account, I mean to divide the remainder between you."

Passepartout and Fix stood dumbfounded for a moment, and then protested with one breath.

"But monsieur, I caused nothing but delays--"

"But look here, Mr. Fogg, it was I that nearly lost you your wager--"

"I insist," said Mr. Fogg, and when Mr. Fogg insisted there was no arguing with him.  "Mr. Fix, here are five hundred pounds."

Fix took the money with trembling hands, and thanked Mr. Fogg with a deep and rather shamefaced bow.

Next, Mr. Fogg gave to Passepartout precisely four hundred ninety-two pounds and two shillings, having deducted the cost of the gas which had been left burning for seventy-nine days:  an amount of almost eight pounds.  Eight pounds!  It was nearly a third of Passepartout's yearly salary, but he couldn't regret it.  What were eight pounds to five hundred?

"That will be all," said Mr. Fogg, but when Fix had departed, he seemed to remember something else.  "Passepartout?"

"Monsieur."

"Today is Christmas Eve."  And it was, although the festive season had snuck up on our travelers as they rushed to arrive in London by the 21st.  Indeed, if they had not been corrected about the day gained, it would have been Christmas Day.  "You may take the rest of the day off; you need not resume your regular duties until the morning of the 26th."

"Thank you, monsieur," said Passepartout, and continued to stand still.  He was happy for the freedom, of course, but he didn't have anywhere in particular to go.  He had no family in London, and after being away for three months he wasn't sure where to look up any of his old connections, especially on Christmas Eve.  Besides, most recently, his closest friend . . .

With another hurried thank-you and Merry-Christmas to Mr. Fogg, Passepartout half-ran and half-stumbled down the front steps, hat in hand, one arm thrust into a coat-sleeve.  "Monsieur Fix!"

Fix stopped and turned.  He hadn't yet reached the corner of Conduit Street.  Passepartout was able to catch up to him in a matter of seconds.

He faced his old companion without speaking for a few moments--out of no bitterness this time, but simply because he did not know how he should begin.  "I wondered if . . .  I thought perhaps . . ." he stammered, and then it came to him.  "Since we are all settling up our accounts . . . It occurs to me that I think I still owe you a few drinks."

"Ah, now that your pockets are flush, it occurs to you, you mean."

Passepartout was relieved to hear the good humor in the other's voice, and answered in kind.  " _Parbleu_!  I am no longer worried about my gas-burner!  Besides, I thought all the drinks you bought me were on expenses from the Peninsular Company," he added, with a wink.

Fix laughed.  "I wish they had been!  The London Metropolitan Police isn't half so generous with its expense accounts.  After all that, I'll be lucky if they don't charge me for the postage on the arrest warrants."

Passepartout instantly regretted the gibe.  He hadn't even considered that Fix might be in trouble after going on a wild-goose chase and arresting the wrong man.

"Ah, but don't worry about me," said Fix, seeing his confusion.  "They aren't exactly about to promote me over this, but I think they'll accept that it was an honest mistake.  You have to admit things did look pretty bad for your master."

Indeed, now that Mr. Fogg's innocence was no longer in question, Passepartout could admit to himself how black the situation must have looked to an objective observer.

"Besides, d'you know, no matter what happens, I'm sure to be all right for a while."  And Fix broke into a grin in spite of himself, as any man would who had five hundred pounds cash in his pocket.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Passepartout.  "It's good to talk with you again, Monsieur Fix."

"You too," said Fix.  "I wasn't sure you'd ever want to see me again."

"But that's all past.  Now that our interests are no longer opposed, and now that everything has turned out well for Mr. Fogg . . . Are we friends?" he asked abruptly, echoing Fix's question of a month before.

"Why, certainly.  We're friends--that is, if you wish it," replied Fix, and extended his hand.

Passepartout, suddenly beaming, shook Fix's hand vigorously.  "Perfect!  Then we must have a drink here in London."

"All right, I know just the place.  I'll get the cab--I feel like paying for transportation, for a change."

"Very well," said Passepartout; "let us go, my friend!  We can eat and drink like kings!"


End file.
